


ludic

by parsnipit



Series: mot juste [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Sexual Bondage, Pale Kink (Homestuck), Pale Porn (Homestuck), Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Plot What Plot, Tickling, and almost entirely kink hff, i'm just here for the (pale) porn, it's heckin spoiling gamzee time, this one's short and sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-23 19:47:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19157746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parsnipit/pseuds/parsnipit
Summary: Karkat wants to make his palemate happy in the pile this morning. Cue the kink. (Essentially, Karkat loves on Gamzee for two thousands words because Gamzee deserves nice things.)





	ludic

**Author's Note:**

> ludic: (adj) showing spontaneous and undirected playfulness
> 
> warnings: nonsexual bondage, brief allusion to childhood neglect, minor disregard for self
> 
> now with super epic adorable [art](https://ceabu.tumblr.com/post/185504522231/me-parsnipit-posts-a-two-thousands-words) by @ceabu on tumblr!

“Comfortable?” Karkat asks, sitting back and straddling your hips. He’s looking at you with open concern, fuzzy-ass eyebrows drawn together and his eyes flickering from your bound wrists to your face. You pull gently against the padded handcuffs he’s got you in, then thread up a contented little chitter for him.

“Comfiest motherfucker this side of the galaxy, best friend, for sure enough,” you tell him, earnest as you know how ‘cause it’s just goddamn _truth._

“Good.” Best friend does go and give you the prettiest little smile, then. “In that case—” Cracks his fingers, widens his grin. “—let Gamzee spoiling time begin.”

“You ain’t got to,” you tell him, again, ‘cause you feel like you’re bein’ downright selfish if you don’t give him an out.

“I know,” he says—reaches up, tangles his fingers in your hair and guides your head back so he can stoop and press lips to your throat. “I _want_ to.”

You chirp, hearing that—can’t even motherfuckin’ help it. Makes you feel so warm and _sweet_ down inside, when he tells you he _wants_ you, whether you do deserve him or not. (A jam for another time, you think.) You lean your head back into his hand, press the arch of your throat up against his fangs as trusting as you know how, and he chitters his approval. He drags claws through your hair, slow and steady over your scalp, and you pull your legs up and tuck your knees against his back to keep him pressed close to you.

“Hey,” he says, softly, cupping one hand over your eyes. “Close your eyes.”

You close your eyes.

“Keep them closed.”

Ain’t a thing in the world could get you to open them, if he orders you not to.

“Good. Good job, Gamzee, really good.” He draws his hand back, smooths his palm across your cheek—a slow, lingering pap. Does it again. Touches the arch of your cheek, your temple, the sharp line of your jaw. His hands are so _warm,_ the little calluses on his fingers and palm achingly familiar. You push into his touch and his shooshes you, low and sweet. “I’ve got you, shhh, Gam. Relax.”

He trails his claws behind your ear, scratches until you flick your fins out at him. He cups them in his hands, brushes his thumbs across the thin membrane there and you can’t even think to halt the stuttering, giddy little chirrups that leave you. He chirps right back, bright and happy. A beautiful motherfuckin’ sound if ever you’ve heard one. A second later and he leans down, takes the edge of a fin between his teeth and puts the barest of pressures down against it, warm breath washing over your ear. You’re chirring almost immediately. Could tear you through with those teeth—wouldn’t take him but a simple chomp and a flick of his head. Easier than bitin’ through true hide, for sure. Your fins are made for showin’ off and not much else—certainly not to withstand any biting force.

But Karkat?

Oh, Karkat would never hurt you, and it’s that knowledge that sets your stomach fluttering and your other fin flicking earnestly for his attention.

He croons his sympathy to you, switches over to nip your other fin, and you shift your wrists against the handcuffs—not so much to get away as to focus yourself with the pressure, the knowledge that you’re here and he’s got you and you’re both _safe._ He smooths his hands down your cheeks again, cups your neck between his palms. You bump a knee against his back—a tiny measure of affection, and then his lips meet yours in sugar-pale kiss. You open your mouth for him almost immediate (what wouldn’t you give him, if he asked?) and feel his tongue flick against your fangs, feeling out the sharpness of them—of _you._ You keep your kiss gentle as you know how, don’t draw even the littlest speck of his precious blood and he sits back after a moment, chirring his satisfaction.

“Good,” he murmurs again, and Messiahs, but you wish you could open your eyes—see his face, pupils blown wide with his pale-want, flushed red to his eartips. His thumb brushes across your lower lip, and you lean forward, take it into your mouth. He lets you, beautiful, trusting thing that he is. You bite gentle, gentle as you know to be, a silent assurance that even though you _can,_ you ain’t never, ever gonna hurt his little self. (Leastways, not unless he wants it of you.)

“Yeah, I trust you.” He dips his head, touches the tip of his nose to yours. He smells like himself, earth-warm-spice, and like thick, rich pale pheromones. He’s as worked up as you are, and you ain’t even _done_ nothin’. (It’s heady, the power you have over him, even when _you’re_ the one bound and going under.) “You’re so perfect. You’re so good at controlling yourself, you know that? You’ve been doing so well.” Presses his lips to the corner of your mouth, slides his hands down to brace against your shoulders. Speaks those vital, ground-shaking words against your skin. “I’m so proud of you.”

You couldn’t stop the rattle of a purr that starts in your chest, then, not even if you wanted to. Karkat’s proud of you. He’s _proud._ You are so motherfucking _happy._ “Thank you,” you breathe, nudging up against his face, trying your best to get your grateful on at him ‘cause ain’t—ain’t anybody said that to you, not for the _longest_ time, not ‘till you quadranted up with him and your Tavbro and got you some bitchin’ awesome friends these last few sweeps. Your lusus sure as hell never told you. “Thank you, brother, best friend, fuck, _thank you—”_

“Shhh,” he croons. Kneads his fingers into the muscles of your shoulders, works out the knots there until you’re shuddering and limp and whimpering helplessly at him. “Shhh, I know. It’s okay. Lay back, let me take care of you.”

You’re helpless to do otherwise. This boy has you wrapped tight around his finger and you’d waltz through hell itself if he told you to. (Somehow, sometimes, letting him love on you like this feels even harder than that.)

Your best friend draws his hands farther down—runs them across your chest, then up again. Sets his claws at the top of your sides, just under your arms, then runs them down to your hips, click-click-clicking over each rib. You can’t help the little smile what tugs at your face, then. You’re a damn ticklish motherfucker, and your best friend does know it well, and does take great advantage when the mood suits him.

“Mm—you have such a cute smile,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss your throat, your collarbones. “Actually, let’s be real. Your whole goddamn face is cute.” He squishes your cheeks between his palms and you gotta grin at him, silly boy that he is. “But I just can’t get over that fucking _smile._ God, you’re killing me, here. Death by adorable.”

“What a way to motherfuckin’ go.”

“The only honorable death,” he agrees, shifting his hands away from your face and tucking them under your shirt, instead. His claws flutter across your stomach, your grubscars, the bottom edges of your ribs, and you squirm and bite your lip against the giddy little sounds that try to escape you. “Hey, don’t be holding out on me, you cute-ass fucker. Your laugh is just as adorable as your smile.”

“Ain’t holdin’ out,” you say, a touch defiantly, and can almost picture how he’s archin’ his eyebrows at you all imperiously.           

“Oh, yeah? I guess I just need to work harder, then.”

He ducks his head under your shirt, wiry little hairs tickling along your stomach, and then he blows a raspberry against your skin. You squeal most un-adultlike at the feeling, your knees jerking forward to bump his back again as you twist beneath him, your tail lashing in surprise. He laughs his own self, breath spilling out over your stomach in warm puffs, and then skitters his claws up and down your sides until you’re giggling up a storm for him.

“Theeeere we go,” he says, contented. “That’s more like it.”

Brother can be a little cocky _bastard,_ by all rights. (And you do love him that way.) He drags his claws slow-like down your sides, leaving little prickles of sensation in his wake, until he reaches your hips. He digs his thumbs into the hollows there and then you’re laughing outright, your arms jerking at the handcuffs ‘cause good fucking _Messiahs_ that _tickles—_ ain’t a bad feeling, by all means, but you can’t hardly control the way you get to squirmin’ when he does this to you.

He shuffles further down, slides off your hips to sit in your pile instead, hooks his arm around your calf and scribbles his claws gentle along the back side of your knee—you’re vulnerable there, and it makes a tinge of pale-love writhe in your chest at the same time you squeeze your eyes shut tighter and giggle your heart out. He’s so good to you, _so good,_ he does make you so very motherfucking happy and you do trust him so much.

“I think soooomebody’s a little ticklish here, huh, Gam?” he asks, and you can hear the shiteating grin in his voice. Oooh, you are so going to get him back for this. “I’m kind of getting that impression.”

You open your mouth to retort (as best you can, anyhow, breathless now), but he twists his head around and blows a raspberry beneath your knee before you can. You gotta do your damned best not to fold your knee up right away, bein’ as that would drive your heel into his back—distracted as you are trying not to kick your tiny palemate, you lose a little more of your control over your noises and collapse into laughter again. You press your head back against the pile, fretting at the cuffs and clamping your knees up as soon as Karkat draws back. He pats your thigh, chittering smugly to himself.

“Well, I’d consider that a hypothesis proven,” he says, and you just _know_ he’s got himself all puffed up and proud. (Does you good, to make him feel that way, however you can.)

You try your best to growl playful through your residual giggles, and he grips your ankle in retaliation. Before you can cry mercy, he’s got those clever little claws scritching across your foot, from right beneath your toes all the way to your heel. You’re laughing again right off, struggling not to kick at him ‘cause you don’t want him to stop, not really, but your body ain’t altogether convinced about that. Your toes curl, and you press the heel of your other foot hard against the pile, your tail flailing a tad desperately. Karkat keeps at you, not letting up even a smidge, until you’re wheezing for breath, and he’s laughing along with you, beautiful little sound, and he’s—

He’s purring, you realize. His laughter’s warped with the sound, a throbbing little rattle that’s made a home down under his sternum. He’s _happy._

Your eyes sting. “‘kat, fuck, Karkat, best friend—”

“Hey.” He stops right quick, smooths his palm over your foot to soothe away the lingering tingles. “Hey, it’s okay, shhh. What’s wrong?”

You tug at your cuffs, roll the muscles in your shoulders, because you need to hold him, you need to—you need—

Karkat lays across you; he’s a warm, grounding weight, and he pulls your arms up and over his head so you can hug him tight to your chest. He shooshes softly—little sighing sounds intermingled with comforting clicks and croons, a soothing moirailsong. You swallow hard. Once, twice. You breathe in the familiar scent of him until the threat of tears dies back, and he strokes your side with one hand and teases his claws over your scalp with the other.

“Sorry,” you rasp. “Motherfuckin’—sorry, that was stupid, that was—”

“Hey, no,” he says, warning. “Nothing’s _stupid_ in the pile, okay?” His voice gentles again, and you feel his lips press against your chin. “What’s the matter, huh? You can talk to me. I’m here, shh, tell me what’s wrong.”

“Not wrong,” you tell him adamantly, sniffling and rubbing your cheek against his. “You just—you’re _happy,_ and I’m not even doing anything for you, and it’s—I don’t—it feels good. Good, but—” You whine, frustrated with your sudden lack of vocabulary.

“Overwhelming?” he suggests, and you nod rapidly. “That’s okay. That’s okay, you can feel that way. But of _course_ I’m happy. Making you happy makes _me_ happy. It always will.” He presses his nose to yours. Adds, soft and gooey-affectionate, “Dumbass.”

You giggle all watery at him, squeezing his shoulders. “Thank you. Thank you a motherfuckin’ bunch, best friend. Sorry I—”

“If you’re going to apologize for having emotions, don’t, or I’ll bite your nose off,” he says, nipping your nose playfully. “You wanna open your eyes now?”

You crack an eye open. “We—we done, brother?”

He cocks his head at you, studies you with fervent red eyes. “Do you need a break?”

You shake your head quick as you can. You don’t want him to be done with you, not yet, selfish though you know it is. But if making you happy makes him happy, than maybe—maybe you don’t need to feel so guilty about it. He looks hard at you and you crack open the other eye so you can meet his gaze for full.

“Alright,” he concedes, after a second. His hand comes up to cover your eyes again. “Keep ‘em closed, Makara. I’ve still got a shitton of spoiling you to do.” He brings a hand up, teases his claws around the roots of your horns, and you shudder with relief. “Now, then. Where were we…?”

**Author's Note:**

> if anybody has a pale gamkar prompt they'd like to see written, feel free to send it to my askbox at [snipsfics](https://snipsfics.tumblr.com/) on tumblr or post it in a comment here! i can't promise to get to it, but i'm always hankerin' for more gamkar to write ( ᐛ )و


End file.
